


An Exchange of Letters

by hiddencait



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Epistolary, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail & Billy, epistolary romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post S2 - Abigail is alive, if not so well, in Savannah.

Mr. William Manderly,  
Boatswain of The Walrus  
Care of Mistress Max at the Inn,  
Nassau

Dear Mr. Manderly,

I daresay you will not be expecting a letter from one such as me, and not six months ago, I would never have expected to send it. It would be nothing less than a scandal for a young woman to write a gentleman who did not number among her relations, and even more so for me to write someone who might not be considered anything near to a gentleman by polite society.

Still less scandal than my life has already become these past few months, however. Letter writing is positively tame when compared to being kidnapped, consorting with pirates, or having my words spoken aloud at a trial in defense of a man my own father fought to condemn. 

Yes, I am aware of that, in case you wondered. It was you who confiscated my journal, so I can only assume it was you who suggested the contents could stand as evidence, and thus you who must have read it as you specifically told me that you would not. I was angry at you for it, angrier than I would have thought I would be. It was private, my thoughts intended for myself alone, and part of me wanted to hate you for violating that privacy.

It is easier to be angrier with you, I think, than with my father or with Mr. McGraw, or even Lady Hamilton. And I know I am so desperately angry at all of them, never mind that one should not think nor speak ill of the dead. I suppose Mr. McGraw isn’t technically among that number, though with his transformation into Captain Flint, part of me does not doubt the Hamiltons’ once friend has died somewhere out on the sea, drowned in his own anger. 

Why is it that having one’s views so irrevocably shifted leads to such anger, I wonder? I cannot speak of anger to anyone here. I am considered “lucky” my hosts agreed to take me in after the news of Charles Town broke, so shameful are my thoughts supposed to be. I’m expected to be contrite and biddable and above all grieving, which I am of course, but grief is far from the only thing I feel just now. And in their eyes, that grief should be tinged with shame and contrition and nothing remotely as unseemly as rage. 

I heard her before the shot: Lady Hamilton spoke of being so enraged, and I fear I understand her now better than I ever thought I could have, than I ever would have wanted to.

No, I cannot speak to anyone in Savannah of my anger in its entirety. My lady’s maid has heard a little, and seems to understand some of it, but she’s a quiet thing and the heat of my resentments seem to frighten her at times (she is the Miss Black who will be mailing this letter for me since all my correspondence is being read for appropriateness now due to my hosts’ concerns for my impropriety). 

Other than her, there is no one about who cares to listen at all.

I suppose that is the reason I am writing you, Mr. Manderly. You will likely hardly welcome this letter, but you might read it. Out of guilt or shame for reading my journal perhaps, or perhaps simply because, like myself, you do not seem to fit in the place you have found yourself. You have your brothers, and it would take a blind man to mistake your loyalty to them, but they are not a purpose. Not a place for you and you alone. 

Whatever the reason, the thought that somewhere someone might take some small note of my words, my thoughts, my anger, seems to matter more than it ever has. Is that foolish of me? 

I am directing this letter to the care of the innkeeper – I believe she was introduced to me as ‘Max?’ I quite had the impression she would know most of what goes on in Nassau, and so likely would know where to pass on this letter once she received it. If you do not read it, so be it. If you do, know that I do not expect nor require a reply to my heedless rambling, but if you choose, Miss Black’s aunt’s shop noted below would be best for a return address.

Despite my anger, I do hope you are well, Mr. Manderly.

Sincerely,  
Miss Abigail Ashe  
Care of Miss Jessica Black  
Black’s Fine Furniture  
Savannah  
Carolina Colonies

 

Miss Ashe,

You’re right, you know: you probably shouldn’t write to me, not in the first place, nor again in response to this letter. I’m not even sure why I’m sending it, to be honest. I suppose it just seemed fair, like you deserved a response after all that happened and my part in it.

I did read your journal; I’ll not pretend I didn’t. And I know I gave my word to you that it would remain private, knowing all the while it wouldn’t. It isn’t an excuse, but I had no choice in the matter. There are those among my brothers clinging very carefully the anonymity that comes with the establishment thinking they are dead. I had to be sure that their names went unheard by you, and thus could not be spoken by accident beyond our waters. Some names, Flint, Vane, Low: they’re meant to be heard, meant to be feared, and I don’t much care that you wrote about them. But the others, they deserved what secrecy I could claim for them. It’s not as if most of them can read to have checked for themselves, you see?

So no, I have no excuses, just an explanation. And an apology, I suppose. I am sorry for the violation of your privacy, even if we both know I’d do it again if need be. 

The pages you likely were most concerned about… You can rest easier with those at least. I tore them out after I read them. They weren’t relevant to anyone by you. I hope that sets your mind a bit more at ease, even if it doesn’t calm the anger.

Not much will, if I’m honest. I’m well acquainted with that anger, and as much as I’d like to tell you different, it doesn’t easily fade. It just wears on you if you aren’t careful. Find other things to think about, other things that matter more than the rage or the hatred. I’ve got my brothers for that if nothing else. 

I hope you find something for yourself as well.

I’ve gone on too long with this damned letter now, haven’t I? You don’t need to answer, miss. You shouldn’t.

-Billy Bones

P.S. It’s just Billy. I doubt I’ll ever be “Mr. Manderly” again. Company here’s nowhere near polite enough for that. You needn’t waste your ink writing it out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shouldn'ts" and a warning.

Dear Billy,

Here I am again, writing you a letter even after, or perhaps because, you told me I shouldn't. 

I shouldn't. I shouldn't. I shouldn’t. You would be shocked if you knew how often I heard those words of late: I shouldn't slouch so, a gentleman can't see my 'lovely' figure when I do; I shouldn't raise my voice – my hostess, Lady Morton, is only 'trying to help'; I shouldn't even write left handed no matter that my penmanship is easily twice as legible with this hand as with my right, even after my governess tying said hand behind my back all those years trying to break me of that affliction. 

Shouldn't. Shouldn't. Shouldn't. It’s like a litany or a gospel from Lady Morton on the virtues I lack and the vices she is sure my time amongst pirates must have bestowed upon me. 

I suppose I should feel honored she assumes said vices cannot possibly be my own. Or more accurately, cannot belong to the daughter of the dearly departed Lord Peter Ashe. She certainly values his memory more than his daughter’s presence.

You will have to forgive me. I find I am even angrier today than I was when I last wrote. Less with you, which I'm sure you will find as a relief if, of course, you were bothered by it in the first place. I assume you were, or else you would not have responded to my letter as you did. But I am well acquainted with the moment when my assumptions collide with realities. Your reason for writing in reply might be something else entirely. 

Either way, I am… glad, that you did. I sent the letter out into the abyss much like writing in my old journal (Lady Morton has been loath to allow me to replace it, considering where the previous incarnation ended up displayed – I suppose she worries I’ll start submitted my private thoughts for public consumption just for the fun of it?). But yes, that letter was as much for my relief as it was for your eyes. Though, it is comforting, knowing they were read. I suppose that caused the lessening of a great deal of my anger to you, knowing you took the time to read it and more time yet to respond to it, even though it can hardly have been a convenience on your part. 

So yes, I am grateful to have received it, even if you intended it as much as a directive not to write again as a true response. 

Thank you, as well, for destroying those pages. They were foolish, the ramblings of a little girl dreaming of matrimony and a storybook hero coming to take her away. I barely recognize that girl now, mere weeks later. She would have been humiliated had those words been read aloud as the others were. Now, I find I’m glad her secrets were kept, but I wonder if I would care so much if they were made public after all. They were hopeful, at least, and nary a word of anger tainted them. 

That girl had been through horrors, but she still wrote of hope, of future, of family. After still more tragedy, I find myself wishing for just a glimpse of that hope again. 

I envy you your brothers, unrelated by blood though they may be. It makes me wonder if you were an only child, or if you had the comfort of siblings about you before your life changed. I envy that comfort. I’ve been told often how “lucky” I am to be an only child, to have been spoiled by the sole affections of my parents before their deaths. I can only disagree – it was lonely even before my mother’s death, and now so much lonelier still. I wish very much for the kind of loyal camaraderie I imagine you must share with your brothers. I daresay it would make life easier to bear if I were not so on my own. 

Sincerely,  
Abigail (you cannot argue with this – if I am to address you so familiarly, I must insist on reciprocity.)

 

Dear Miss Abigail,

If it helps, I told myself half a dozen times not to respond to your letters in the first place, let alone a second time. “Shouldn’t” is a curse to both our ears, I suppose, one neither of us is bothering to listen to. And tied your hand behind your back? Why the devil would she – never mind. It’s not important, is it?

I’m hardly excusing her, but I wonder if it isn’t easier for your Lady Morton to see you as your father’s mirror than as the woman you are. You grew up in England, I guess, but even before Charles Town you’d lived through things no lady should have to, and worse in some folk’s eyes, you survived it, rose above it even. It’s not what a ‘proper’ lady would expect to see another woman manage, especially not someone young and sheltered. You confound her, I suspect. All the things that made you strong enough to face Nassau and its citizens are the very things she might think are your vices. They were there first, they’d have to be, but it doesn’t make it easier to understand. 

Honestly, half the men who end up pirates can’t understand it, either. Survivors hardly recognize that will to live in themselves, do they? At least not until they need it. If she never has, she won’t know how to react to it. It’s too far out of her experience, more luck to her for that. Her “shouldn’ts” are meant for the sheltered lady who’s never met the likes of us, nor spent as much time amongst us as you were forced to. 

I know it’s not likely to help the anger, but it might put things in a bit of perspective.

As for those pages… There’s nothing foolish about hoping for something good, something wholesome in the future. Everybody wishes for it, just most aren’t brave enough to admit it out loud or on paper, even to themselves. Likely the only foolish thing about them was the subject of those dreams. You could do better, then and now. You’re still a lady, no matter what society might think. You still deserve a proper gentleman by your side. One will offer for you soon enough. I have no doubt of that. 

You should be happy with him, whoever he is. You deserve that, too.

Just so you know, if you write again, it’s liable to be a while before I’ll get it. You’ll likely hear the news before you get this letter, but we’re on the hunt. Charles Town is likely to be a mere template of Flint’s wrath in the days ahead. Mrs. Barlow’s death set something loose in him even I haven’t seen before. There’ll be blood, and plenty of it. 

You should be even more careful from here on out about who knows you’re writing to someone in Nassau. It could cost more than your reputation if the authorities decide you’re a sympathizer. 

Just… stay safe.

-Billy


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News, but no replies from Billy aboard the Walrus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies at how long I've made y'all wait for another chapter! I was working to some original fiction deadlines, and my fanfic WIPs had to go by the way side unfortunately, and then once I tried to get back to the fic, I was a little lost on where to go with this next chapter. Much love to ClementineStarling for cheering me on and kickstarting my brain for this chapter!

 Dear Billy,

I don’t know quite how to thank you for your words in your last letter. “Survivor” rings deeply as truth within me, settling and easing some of my anger when confronted instead with “victim.” I’d not thought such a slight shift in perspective could cool the rage brought on by the different shifts we’ve discussed before, though I suppose I should have. Regardless, “survivor” strikes me a something to be praised, to be proud of. And “will to live” should be another virtue, I think, though I doubt Lady Morton would agree.

I suppose you are right about her, too, loathe as I sometimes am to admit it. In truth, she is being far more generous than some might. Opening her home to a frightened young woman for a brief visit until her father could collect her is one thing; allowing that young woman to remain indefinitely as her ward is entirely another. Indeed, more than one of her acquaintances has remarked within my hearing that they’d have sent me back to England on the first available ship after receiving the news from Charles Town, never mind that I would have had nowhere to go upon my arrival in London. There’s no one left there for me, not even a friend of Father’s who might stoop to allowing my presence in their household at the cost of my dowry. Father had been gone too long to keep up such societal connections. Truly had he any options for my welfare, I don’t believe he would have sent for me at all.

I fear that is something else I would be angry at him for, that lack of a desire for my presence as anything but a last resort. I find these days my anger is exhausting me, however, and I almost lack the energy to even be angry. I’m trying to remain so, strange as it may seem. The stagnant sensation of loneliness and despair are so much worse than the active force of rage within me.

Lady Morton likely wouldn’t agree with that, either.

Still, she has been more of a champion to me than I had any right to expect. You wrote of offers for my hand, of men that might make me happy, if happy is even something I could be again after everything. There are days I doubt “happiness” is a word I ever knew the proper meaning of. There have been offers already, the speed of which surprised only myself, I suspect. Both however were undoubtedly only due to the size of my dowry as opposed to any affection for me. Indeed, it would surprise you, I think, how discourteously “gentlemen” can act when seeking out an easy fortune for themselves. I can say with all honestly that the pirates of my recent acquaintance took more care to offer me those bare manners than my suitors have. Even a hand to help me aboard or a nod as I passed by on deck seems terribly polite in comparison.

Much to my shock, Lady Morton took my side against her husband on the subject of my rejection of both those offers. I had thought she might wish to be rid of me as quickly as possible, and never mind that the haste might be unseemly or that the offers in question were presented with such abject disrespect. It’s a relief to know that she does appear to have my best interests at heart, even if she and I now view my best interests in such different lights.

I don’t know how to tell her that I have begun to fear I will never find someone to marry here in Savannah, or even elsewhere in polite society any longer. I find I struggle to relate myself with those I’ve met here, to attend to polite conversation as I should as a lady of my station. The men I have met do not want to conceive of what I have lived through, and most believe I lived through even worse than I did, and that they will be lowering themselves to offer to one so likely ruined by my captors.

I wasn’t, at least not in the way they think. But I have to wonder if something deeper has been stained and might not be easily cleansed again.

Sincerely,

Abigail

P.S. I almost forgot in my ramblings, but with regards to your concerns that my correspondence might be discovered, when I visited the shop to arrange the sending of this letter, Mrs. Black delicately informed me that her husband does on occasion receive and sell items with a rather dubious legality sold to him by men whose names he takes care not to ask for. So, while not directly involved in piracy as such, it seems the family is at least somewhat more sympathetic to the citizens of Nassau than the rest of Savannah might be.

I do not know for sure that sympathy will remain, but for now, at least, I feel I am safe enough in sending my letters to you. I daresay I might chafe at my situation if I did not have this one small outlet for my thoughts.

 

\---

 

Dear Billy,

As it’s been some weeks since your last reply and without one to my most recent letter, I can only guess you remain “on the hunt” as you put it. You were right: the news did not take long to reach us here in Savannah. With two coastal towns ransacked after the execution of pirates, Captain Flint’s fearsome reputation is growing even more so. I have had to bite my tongue more than once as my hosts and their guests speak ill of him and of the Walrus’ crew. It is not that I would ever condone what is happening, but I know full well that you and your brothers are not the monstrous beasts they portray as the news spreads.

Monstrous things are happening, that cannot be denied, but you are all merely men. I have seen the most monstrous amongst you, and even these new crimes fall short of Lowe and his ilk in my eyes. Not that my hosts have bothered asking my opinion on the matter, of course. To them I cannot possibly views these events without bias. No matter that none of _them_ refrain from showing any bias either.

One of Lord Morton’s close friends and business associates was in Harper’s Landing in time to “luckily” attend the hanging in question. He, of course, has felt it his societal duty to inform all of us of what he saw many times over in every subsequent conversation into which he inserts himself. The repetition alone would grate upon my ragged nerves.

He also claimed to be oh so terribly concerned for his safety after the fact, once reports of the Walrus’ attack made their way to Savannah. I daresay we might all have been better off had he remained there on business. I know, I _know_ one mustn’t wish death upon a person, but Mr. Nicholms is a… a right bastard if I ever met one. I assume you will forgive my improper speech, as truly I can think of nothing more accurate to call him. He cornered Miss Black in the foyer twice to grab her most inappropriately, with only the butler’s timely arrival each time saving her from worse even than that. I finally chose to feign illness and take to my rooms so she had the excuse of tending to me in order to stay out of his reach for the final three days of his visit.

But I digress. That he described such a morbid event as a hanging as practically a festival disgusted me thoroughly, but it was his descriptions of those who were hung that haunts me still and teases at that anger I thought myself too exhausted to feel. Of the four, one was a woman whose only crime was allowing pirates to purchase supplies from her small apothecary. Mr. Nicholms decried her actions most fiercely, which considering his near worship of free trade felt most hypocritical. Worst yet though… the last one hanged was a mere cabin boy of only twelve years at most. I couldn’t help but think of your history and wonder how little choice that child had in his employment and what might have driven him to join a crew at so young an age. And yet, child or no, he was sentenced with men, admittedly criminals, two and three times his age.

I begin to understand Captain Flint’s vendetta against these mayors when I think of that boy. I only wish his wrath did not cost innocent townsfolk their lives, as well.

I’ve gone on too long with writing this; I can hear Lady Morton calling for me. I just… I hope you and your brothers stay safe, and that I might hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Abigail

P.S. I’ve included a pamphlet being printed and distributed here in Savannah. I don’t know if it will help your cause in any way, but I felt it might be prudent for you (and your captain) to know the rumors that are being spread regarding Flint’s campaign. Please let me know if I should send subsequent pamphlets as they are printed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy, and a letter that rambles far more than he meant it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken so long! Billy's voice decided to fight me hard with this one, and I'm still worried he's sounding OOC, but I'm tired of constantly fighting with it. On the upside, this is a nice long chapter compared to previously. I hope you all enjoy it, and that HOPEFULLY, the next chapter won't take so terribly long.

_On a separate scrap of paper folded inside several torn and filthy sheets of parchment:_

(Sorry for the mess of this letter. I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to send one any time soon as I’d told you, but I ended up writing off and on even before I received either of your replies. I haven’t bothered to read this all the way through since I’ve got to post it off quick-like to ensure it goes out at all, so I’ve likely rambled on more than I thought. Hope it makes something like sense to you. -Billy)

 

Dear Miss Abigail,

 

As I’d mentioned in my last letter, we’re back on the hunt again, with Flint on a new vendetta against any town that’s hung pirates. You’d think the judges in those towns would keep the hangings quiet as the news spread, but it seems some of them take the news of Flint’s hunt as a challenge. I know for a fact the news about Waybreak should have reached Harper’s Landing before we did, but the latter town seemed shocked by our arrival mounting next to no defenses against the raid.

 

It was as bad as you’ve likely heard, in both cases, but I can only hold the fact that we managed to keep it less bloody than Charles Town as a victory. It took more than one voice in Flint’s ear to convince him to turn most of his anger on the establishment instead of the citizens. If it had been just myself I doubt I’d have convinced him of anything.

 

I don’t know if you met him while you travelled with us, but we’ve a new quartermaster, Mr. Silver. It’s strange – before I loathed him, thought him a thief and a liar, playing with our crew and captain with a goal only to advance himself. I’m still not sure I was wrong on any particular count, but he’s pulling his weight now, more than I expected and more than one would think him capable of with his affliction. He lost his leg during the Charles Town mess. It’s meant a shift in our duties of sorts. Normally, the quartermaster leads the charge over the rails, but with only one leg, he’s not up to that, is he? Instead, I’m at the captain’s back in battle, not that I ever wasn’t, and Silver remains aboard and has the ship made ready for a fast escape. It’s kept us out of the hands of the navy once already, so I suppose as a strategy it works well enough.

 

And at least, Silver’s presence gives me that second voice to speak up against Flint risking his and our lives even more recklessly than he already is. It’s still an uneasy partnership, but if I’m honest, Silver’s almost becoming like a friend. I won’t forget the role he played early on at Flint’s side, both with regards to my temporary captivity following a return from the dead, and in the case of the death of Mr. Gates, Flint’s former quartermaster and my dear friend and mentor. I can’t allow myself to forget either instance, but I’ve no choice in working with him and following Flint, so I suppose for now I make the best of it. It’s not as if I’ve many other options, do I?

 

It’s the sea and this crew, or the sea and another crew, one that might not show me the respect and loyalty shown by my brothers here.

 

…

 

Sometimes I think of home, of England and my family, but … Never mind. It’s less than useless thinking of that. It’s too easy with these letters sometimes. Too easy to write to you of things I wouldn’t bother telling to anyone else. Things I can’t hope to change, but still wonder about at nights. I suppose it’s like you with your journal – there’s a strange sense of safety, putting words down on paper, knowing no one (or in this case only one) will ever know the truth of them.

 

It’s easier too, writing these words at night, in the dark, with only a candle to light the stacks of booty down here. It’s not quiet, mind; you’ll remember how the ship speaks at night, groaning and creaking and splashing about as it cuts through the waves. The men, too, are a raucous even at this hour. Between the snoring of half the mates and the footsteps above from the few on watch, it’s certainly impossible to believe one’s on one’s own, even for a moment. That’s almost a comfort though out here, knowing your brothers are nearby, and you’ve someone to face whatever comes at your side.

 

Still, I wouldn’t want to share these letters with them. Some wouldn’t understand, and those that did or thought they did… well it’s none of their business, is it?

 

…

 

We made harbor back in Nassau finally, even Flint admitting we needed to rest and resupply before the next hunt. Most of the men headed straight to the brothel, and the rest to the inn. Food and a fuck: it tends to be all a sailor thinks of once they make it back to dry land. Shit, sorry about my language –strange but I sometimes forget it’s a lady I’m writing to and not just, well, a friend, I suppose.

 

I’ve got a small house, more a shack if I’m honest, just on the outskirts of town. Small, just room for a table, chair, and a bed, but it feels more like a home than the tent city where most of the men stay, sprawled out on carpets and mattresses on the sand. Maybe it makes me soft but if I’m on land, I for damned sure want a proper bed beneath me when I sleep.

 

I’ve finally got your letters now, by the way, and damned if I know where to begin with them. Above all else, I’m glad to hear your correspondence is still going a safe route between us; as the raids continue, I’ve worried you put yourself even more at risk with them. Knowing you’ve a contact that risks just as much with their cargo, while worrisome all on its own – what happens if _they’re_ caught after all? – still it means I have a way to still reach out to you.

 

I begin to understand your first letter better as the weeks pass and the violence continues. I respect my brothers, and Silver is becoming something like a friend even, but I don’t know that I’d dare speak to them as I confide to you in these letters. It’s a chance to breathe, writing them is. I’d miss it, and your replies, more than is probably wise.

 

I’m glad to hear you’re coming to something of an accord with Lady Morton, if only because I know how ill at ease it makes one to be forced to be civil with an adversary day in and day out. Glad too to hear she’s taking your side with those sorry excuses for suitors. What’s the matter with them anyway? I can’t imagine a man treating you that poorly, courting just for the sake of a dowry. I can’t figure that. But then, I remember my parents, faded though the memories are, and above all else, they loved each other. I can’t see myself bothering for a partnership based on any less. I suppose that’s what I hope for you: that those who offer for you see the strength in you and value you for it as you deserved to be valued and cherished as a wife, as opposed to a purse string.

 

And just so you know, if no one has told you, there’s not a damned thing ruined about you. Not a damned thing.

 

If you’re reading this letter, you know by now that you’ll never have to apologize for language with me. Mr. Nicholm’s sounds like just the man who deserves a visit from one of my brothers, to be honest. Shame Savannah’s not on the list. Though at the same time, I’d hate to see a raid there put you in harm’s way. Even if he knew you were there, I’m not sure Flint would hesitate in his attack.

 

(I keep having to read back through your letters to make sure I’m addressing all of what you’ve written. But I think I’m near done now.) I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you for the pamphlets, Abigail. Or no, I know better than to think I’d curse you for them. Curse the printer maybe, but then again probably not them either. My parents were printers – did you know that? I gathered Flint told you at least a portion of my past, but I never knew the all of what he said. Either way, it’s true. My earliest memories are of the scent of ink and parchment and the stains of black and blue on my father’s hands from the press and in my mother’s hair from her forgetting herself and tucking a quill behind her ear while she re-read what she’d just written. I… I swear some days I almost forget those moments. I should thank you for the memories. I do thank you for them.

 

As far as the pamphlets, they are useful as you mentioned. Propaganda’s a more dangerous weapon than you might think in this war of ours. It’s one I keep thinking we should put into play, though damned if I can think of how I’d do so without a printing press or way to distribute without setting allies at risk.

 

That I will not do.

 

Christ I’ve gone on and on here haven’t I? I hope you’ll forgive the length of this, and the rather shoddy state of the parchment. I’ve kept the pages in progress on my person as we travelled, along with your former letters too. Haven’t wanted to risk them going astray.

 

Stay safe.

-Billy

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Abigail fears she's ruined this letter, but sends it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took quite a while to get posted, but I FINALLY had a plot a epiphany and think I know how the story will progress and end. I'm thinking there may be 4-5 more chapters at the most? Hopefully? LOL Either way this is going to be the WIP I focus on for the next while in hopes of getting it completed for you all!

Dear Billy,

You cannot imagine how glad I am to find your response. I know you warned me that it likely would be some time in between letters, but I could not help but worry for your safety the longer I went with only the gossip about the raids as some clue as to your whereabouts. I… I worry that someday you will die out at sea, and I will have no way of knowing another letter will never arrive.

I am not sure I could bear it. Not now, not after even the few letters we’ve exchanged over the past month. It seems foolish, but I depend on them just as you admitted that you do. I just… Never mind, I find I am out of sorts today and likely to let my words run wilder than they should.

While I was glad indeed to receive your letter after the long silence, I have to admit there are parts I hated to read, for your sake more than mine. In my own isolation, I don’t know that I realized the extent of your own. I knew almost from the first that you were out of place there aboard a pirate vessel, but I had thought, had hoped I suppose, that you at least had comfort in the crew and your brothers. I had not considered that the very things that draw me to continue writing to you – your thoughtfulness and honesty and innate decency – would at the same time widen the gap between you and them. It’s true I cannot imagine the other men I met balking at the violence as I believe you do. Or giving near the thought to it at all, frankly.

Strangely considering it is he would leads these bloody charges, Captain Flint is the only other I would guess might choose to carry the weight of those deeds. Perhaps my image of him is skewed from my time traveling with him and Lady Barlow, but I do not believe I was so naïve as to misjudge the gentleness and compassion he showed me.

I have to believe it is grief that turns him into the monster civilized society is so determined to believe him to be. I wonder perhaps if… Never mind. It is not as if there would be a way to soothe such a terrible grief. It’s a shame. If I could, if we could, see a way to ease some of that rage, I believe far fewer deaths would follow.

Forgive me, I’ve gone greatly off topic, I’m afraid. I wanted, _needed,_ to say that I’m honored you spoke of your parents to me, that you’d trust me enough to share that despite how much it must pain you to think of them. I know that haze in memory you spoke of – I barely remember my mother myself, except for strangely enough the sound of her skirts on the wooden floors and the look of her hands on the keys of a piano. She taught me to play a little; I had the opportunity of continuing the lessons at boarding school, but somehow I could not bear to do so under any tutelage but hers. My father did not understand my reticence; I often received letters from him wondering at my choice to set aside the skill. Still, I wonder if he truly would have cared either way, or indeed ever known I’d played in the first place, if the headmistress had not specifically brought it to his attention.

And there I am again – angry with him for his absence in my life, then and now. It’s strange, but I never felt the comfort in his letters than I do in yours. He was my father, but often I felt as if he were writing some acquaintance who he’d learned of from other distant friends. And how was I to write honestly or openly to someone who had not cared to see me in months or years?

Even in Charles Town, I could feel it: that sense that we were strangers to each other, that I did not know this man wearing my father’s face.

Knowing what I do now of his betrayal of those who were said to be his closest friends, I wonder if I was not far off, that the man I barely remembered from my childhood was indeed a completely different person than the one wearing the Governor’s mantle and who in his own way caused the deaths of a great many men, though he did so under the guise of the “law.” As if execution via a snapped neck or slow strangulation within the noose is less abhorrent or less final than death at the end of a sword.

I find I still miss the first man, but it has become harder and harder to grieve the second.

In some ways I suppose that is for the best. Society seems to think so – I’m being not-so-subtly pushed further and further out of mourning as the days pass. Back in London it would be considered unseemly for this awful parade of suitors to continue so close to the loss of a family member, but here under Lord Morton’s roof, I am pressed to entertain these men more and more often. The lady of the house still takes my side on the subject of accepting one of these boorish oafs, but I have my doubts that Lord Morton will continue to bow to her wishes much longer.

So help me I just wish any of them were more like… More like you, though I know how foolish that is to think so. It’s like I sometimes want to crawl back into those cast off pages and rest there for days, Billy, and it makes it so much harder to be content with the lot I’m living instead.

You wrote of your parents having a “partnership” and of believing I deserve to be valued and cherished and I cannot help but ache for wishing that could actually be. That anyone here might think of me, care for me in that manner. It’s hard to believe it even possible while shackled as I am within the confines of Society.

And, Billy, you – you are the only one, the single solitary soul that has told me I am not ruined. The only one. Can you possibly know how much that means to me.

Forgive me. I’ve made a mess of these pages, and should probably start all over but I have hardly the energy or the spare stationary to do so with Lady Morton being so strict with my purchases. I suppose I will have to just send this as written, and hope you will not judge me for the state of the paper and the words I’ve written so hastily.

I know I am quite a mess of a lady, but your words give me comfort even when they make me hurt all at once. Please do not stop writing me.

Sincerely,

Abigail


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail misses Billy's words and catches a glimpse of something that could change everything.

Dear Billy,

I must remind myself that it will still be some time in between letters or I dare say I will fret myself into a state wondering when I shall get a response. I did not plan to write you again so soon after the last letter, but I find I put pen to paper now as much to distract me from that fretting as out of any additional news to pass on to you.

I daresay the fretting is worse this time than I expected it to be. I can’t imagine what you must think of me after what I wrote to you last, after those sentiments laid perhaps more bare than they should have been. But I cannot regret writing so; it was simply the truth after all. Your letters are precious to me, your words precious.

I suppose I cannot deny that in some strange way you have grown precious to me as well, or perhaps the memory of you as I perceived you on the ship, both larger than life and kinder than any “pirate” should be. You dominated the landscape of the deck and rigging in my memory, towering above your brothers and yet lifting them up to stand beside you all at once. It was a powerful image, that memory, and in retrospect, I am not surprised it left such a lasting impression.

Your letters have only added to that memory.

I wonder if that’s the secret – writing letters, honest, thoughtful letters, to someone – to leaving such a lasting mark upon another soul. It seems harder in person, all tucked up and buttoned up in one’s best clothes, balanced on the edge of a settee while a suitor balances on the edge of a chair and both of you hold your tea but barely drink it except when seeking not to speak. It’s just dreadfully awkward and painfully staged. There’s no authenticity in those stuffy parlors and beneath the gaze of a chaperone. Even if the men calling upon me lately weren’t so often bores or alternately rakes of the worst sort, I wonder if I would not feel so detached from them if I were not meeting them one after another after another in such falsely polite society.

I no longer trust such civility, I fear.

And yet it’s those “civilized” folk I am supposed to believe in, to trust my dowry, my livelihood, my very future to. Some stranger who knows next to nothing of me, most of which is either untrue or hardly flattering to my person and reputation. And I’m supposed to trust that with that little they “know” that they will treat me as a husband ought to treat a wife.

Though I do not doubt polite society and I now have very different ideas for how a wife “ought” to be treated. Your words “cherished” and “partner” still ring too clear in my head for me to settle for mere “security” or “respectability.” Those seem so lacking now where once I thought them to be expected. Romance is for novels or poetry; even when a well-bred young lady dreams of a husband, she knows he must first be respectable before he is kind or handsome or loveable.

It’s sad looking back on the young woman I was, the one who thought that was quite the normal way of things.

Sadder still knowing my hosts and suitor expect that I should mold myself back into that young woman as if I have not been irrevocably changed by my experiences. It’s odd – they are so focused on how those experiences have altered my reputation, but cannot understand that I am, in fact, truly altered at the core as well.

It’s blind of them, and frustrates me so. Worse on days when I’ve a caller, of course.

Worse yet on days, like this one, without a letter to remind myself that at least one person in this world knows me better than that.

Oh, Miss Black is calling me, so sadly I must end this letter. We are to dine at a nearby plantation owned by a business partner of Lord Morton’s, a Mr. Oglethorpe I believe his name was. He apparently intends to show my hosts some new business scheme of some kind.

I daresay he will also be showing off his heir whether it be a son or nephew. Otherwise, my own presence would not have been so specifically requested.

I would much rather remain here tonight and spend my evening writing to you and re-reading your letters. It’s soothing in a way nothing else seems to be.

Sincerely,

Abigail

P.S. As we discussed previously, I’ve included the most recent pamphlet that was distributed here.  Also, though I worry to send you the news, I’ve included a newspaper clipping regarding an announcement of three hangings, each of which are scheduled to take place here, in Savannah. I know I cannot hope to stand in the captain’s way, but I still wanted you to receive such news from myself instead of some stranger or informant out of Nassau. I do not know what best to do with some information, but I trust you, Billy. Use it as you must.

 

 

Billy,

I must be quick to add this note before Miss Black takes it and my last letter to the post. If you recall from a recent missive, I wondered if there was a way, perhaps, to soothe the captain’s rage and grief. I… I fear I may have found such a way, though I cannot be sure.

My memory of meeting Lady Hamilton and her husband when I was a child are somewhat unclear, I must admit, but I swear… I _swear_ I have seen Lord Hamilton tonight at the Oglethorpe plantation. I know the rumors claimed he committed suicide due to the captain and Lady Hamilton having an affair, but after overhearing some of the pair’s conversations both on the voyage to Charles Town and later with my father – though I was not supposed to have heard the latter conversation – I do not believe the situation was so simple. If I was not mistaken, they _both_ mourned Lord Hamilton greatly.

And if Lord Hamilton is alive then – then I do not know how any of the events ten years ago indeed came to pass, but it might…oh it might save us somehow. It will surely change things irreparably no matter what the captain’s response is to the news.

I will do what I can to investigate the identity of the man I saw further, but I fear it may go poorly with my guardians if I am discovered.

Please write back as soon as you can. I know you would in any case, but I could desperately use your advice on this matter. Your words steady me, and I could use that support.

Yours,

Abigail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look there's finally a plot here! Who'd have guessed?

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy. Just when I thought I had more WIPs than I know what to do with, this fic decided to slam into my brain HARD. I am intending to write this entirely in letters, which means prepare for a glacial slow build and a plot that may or may not work as I attempt to manage this. We shall see. This definitely is one that I'd be thrilled to have feedback or ideas tossed at me for. It's going to be one of the bigger challenges I've attempted, I think.


End file.
